The Truth Will Set You Free
by Dailenna
Summary: A man in a mental asylum is accused of murdering Riza Hawkeye. Over a period of weeks he tells the story of what really happened, to the man sent to decide whether he's fit to face court or not.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist or its characters. I do, however, own Henry Fitzwilliam, his family, and the Unnamed Psychologist.

**Notes:** Yet another story, hurrah! This one I began a year, maybe a year and a half ago. I was watching a particular television show and got the idea. I won't say what it's called, and especially what that episode is about, because it would give the game away. This is a short piece, 13 small chapters, but I hope they tell the story well enough. I'd like to thank my good friend Griselda Banks for reading over the first half and making sure I was giving the right sort of impression. If the second half is dodgy at all, it's because I wanted it to still be a surprise for her when she read, and so it doesn't have her wonderful eye having fixed anything up for me. Oh, and I know I have annoying OCs in every second - if not every - chapter, but I hope I've portrayed them and the main characters in such a way that doesn't detract from Arakawa Hiromu's wonderful creations. Thank you, and enjoy!

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"**The Truth Will Set You Free**" by **Dailenna**

**Chapter One:**

In one particular month, when I was thirty-five, Henry Fitzwilliam's name was on everyone's lips. For weeks he was all I would hear about from the rest of the world. I was questioned, poked and prodded so much that I thought I must have been Henry himself. After that month passed, I heard of him less and less frequently, but there would be the odd mention tossed into the air; the occasional probing remark sent in my direction. Now, his name is mere background noise. For a person to pick his face out of a crowd, they would have to have known him, before it all started. Not many people can claim that connection. Even I didn't know who Henry was until a few days after that tragic event. When I did meet him, however . . .

Let's just say that on my way in to my first visit with him, the guards told me to "Be careful of this one – you get the feeling he's going to burst, sometimes." Although, I reasoned, would he really be in a mental institution if he wasn't a danger, in the state he was in, either to the general public or to himself?

Whenever we met, a guard would be present – two, at the beginning, when he was most upset – to make sure that nothing untoward happened to either me or to him. Considering what had happened, I understood, but Henry's behaviour during our meetings, and when I wasn't there (at least as it was reported to me), could have fooled anyone into thinking the man was harmless.

I still remember sitting down across from him that first time, and introducing myself. I'd heard about the conditions of his incarceration, and I was wary, to say the least, but tried to present a strong front. In my training we had been told that showing weakness would give our patients the upper hand, and I was afraid of losing control of the situation, especially around a man I at that time considered to be dangerous. I still remember saying . . .

"Do you know why you're in here?"

Henry put his head on one side, his puffy, red eyes full of hurt. The expression on his face told of a terrible ordeal he had been through. "You believe them, don't you?" His voice was thickened by the mucus his weeping had brought. "You think that I killed her."

I stiffened, and told myself that the police report I read earlier had said this already, and I should have expected this sort of response. It was my first criminal case, so I was nervous enough already. My mind was just magnifying my fears. I had expected a murderer to be merciless; to be alert and aware of the situation, brashly denying it, not mourning so openly. I didn't know how to react, so I decided to see what information he was willing to give, first of all. Drawing his side of the story out could let me play on inconsistencies to find the truth. It was my job, after all, to find out why.

"So you didn't murder her, then?" It was a bad choice of words, but it was what I said.

"No!" he pushed. I could see the tears welling up in his eyes again. "Of course I didn't! I wouldn't do that sort of thing – not to her."

"Not to her . . . But you would to someone else?" I asked, trying to keep my tone conversational, rather than condemning.

"No, you're misunderstanding me! I just-! I-!" He stopped, leaning into his hand and sobbing quickly and quietly.

For a moment I didn't know where to go from there. Talking about this was upsetting him, and continuing on the same track wasn't going to help me gain his trust, which I wanted so that I could find out what lay beneath. I decided to approach from a different angle and see what I could discover in that way.

I waited for his shoulders to stop heaving so quickly. It took some time, but eventually he calmed down a little. One of his hands wiped at his nose.

"Henry, can you tell me about her? What was she like?"

He sat there for a moment longer, composing himself. When he looked up his nose was dripping, so I asked one of the guards to go and get him a box of tissues. The guard hesitated for a moment, but afterwards stepped outside for the barest of moments before returning, tissues in hand. Henry was so lost in thought that at first he didn't see the guard standing beside him offering the box. When he did, he took it and thanked the man. Henry blew his nose quickly, and wiped his eyes on the end of one sleeve.

"She was so beautiful," he finally said. The whole time he spoke his eyes remained on the table between us, as though he was watching her through it. His fingers traced the table-top lovingly, and a trembling smile only just curved up the corners of his lips. "Every one of her moves was so graceful and efficient. She was like an artwork. A liquid sculpture."

"When did you first see her?" I asked.

His eyelids closed gently and two tears rolled out from underneath them, slowly making their way down his cheeks. "We met three years ago," he replied. "The nineteenth of October."

I scribbled the date down in my notes. "Can you tell me more about it? How did you meet her? What happened?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist or its characters. I do, however, own Henry Fitzwilliam, his family, and the Unnamed Psychologist.

**Notes:** Ay, Chapter Two! - in which we get to see our lovely FMA characters, even if only at a distance . . .

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**Chapter Two**

Central was the town that meant a new life for Henry. For once in all the years he had lived he would be living his own life, in his own space, not having to share with brothers. He could find a job and have an income of his own instead of remaining dependant on his parents. He could escape his loud, overbearing family, and learn what it was like to experience silence.

It was comforting to find his very own apartment. It was on the third floor of a building in the middle of the city, and although other people lived there as well, each had their own individual flat, and were able to lock others out. It was a change from his family home, where siblings came and went in any hour of the day or night. He'd never been able to get a moment by himself as a child, with four brothers and two sisters.

With his keen observational skills, and his love for cameras, Henry soon found a job with one of the city's newspapers as a photographer. Although the office was a lot louder and busier than he would have liked, it managed to pay the rent and keep the utilities turned on. It was for that reason that he put up with the odd hours.

When the phone rang that night, the nineteenth of October, it wasn't different to any other. The day had been completely uniform in the structure it shared with the other days since Henry arrived in Central. He meandered away from the bachelor's dinner he was trying to cook on his stove, and answered the ringing phone.

"Henry Fitzwilliam speaking."

"Henry," the voice on the other end said, "there's been a fire in the military dorms. The fire station is on its way there, and we're covering the story. You're on my way, so I'll pick you up – be ready in two minutes."

"Right, see you then, Forbes."

Frank Forbes was one of the guys at the office. He wasn't the best of the best when it came to journalism, but getting information about a fire wasn't the sort of material to send in Rich Dellhard for. The boss saved Dellhard for the stories no-one wanted to get out, like political scandals and other front pagers. Unless they were the one who started it, no-one had anything to hide about a fire, so Forbes was adequate for the job. Just like Henry.

He hung up and turned the stove off. After finding his equipment Henry gulped down what he could of his lukewarm dinner – baked beans, really – before Forbes knocked on his door. The rest of it was left on the sink for later, should they arrive back at a respectable hour. Maybe even if they didn't – he couldn't afford to waste food just because of the timing of stories.

The car ride went by quickly. Forbes yammered on about what he expected would have happened ("Some lout didn't put his cigarette out properly, and it caught the whole joint on fire, I suppose."), and Henry agreed with the man quietly. Forbes' overbearing personality was enough to make Henry shrink into himself sometimes, and it was easier just to go along with whatever he said.

It wasn't hard to tell when they were getting close. The sky had smelled like smoke for a few minutes, and the orange and red flames flickered reflectively on the surrounding buildings. Luckily, the military buildings were set apart from the main residential area. Sure, there were the people who lived inside, but no civilian's house was about to be set on fire unless someone started a new one outside of the military compound. Headquarters was one building, the training facilities were another, some distance away, and the dorms were separated from the other buildings by at least twenty metres. Providing no wreckage fell that distance, and no sparks jumped the gap, the only building that would be affected would be the dorms themselves.

The car pulled up near a crowd – the evacuated soldiers, Henry assumed. While Forbes sidled up to the group and began asking questions, Henry looked for the best shots. There were the reaction shots of the people, maybe the rage of the flames, and of course, there were the heroic fire-fighters putting the flames out. For good measure he'd get at least one of each, but he tried to find the angles that would give him the best view.

As Henry wandered around, occasionally snapping the odd picture, he edged closer to the burning building. A photograph from afar could make the viewer feel isolated – he wanted to make sure they felt like they were right in the action, helping fight those flames. When the fire-fighters noticed him, they cautioned him back.

"You don't want to die just for the sake of a good picture, do you?"

He thanked them for their concern and moved away before jogging around the corner of the building. Here, where they weren't so concentrated, he pulled his camera up to his face. Taking small steps, he positioned himself for the perfect photo.

The flash went off, the picture was taken, and an ominous creak above Henry made him look up. There was a shout to his right, and before he knew what was happening a body crashed into him, and the two of them went rolling away to the side.

A dizzy, disoriented Henry sat up, still clutching at his camera with both hands.

"Are you alright?" the other person asked.

He looked across to the woman, who was getting to her feet. She was blonde, sharp-featured and in the military uniform. The light made it hard to see the colour of her eyes, but they were looking at him with such a sincere expression that Henry couldn't speak for a moment.

Finally, he shook himself out of it. "I'm fine," he told her quietly, taking one hand off his camera to push himself up off the ground.

He was about to ask why she tackled him when she pointed back in the direction they had come from.

"That was a close call there. You should be more careful."

When he looked back, he saw smouldering debris lying where he had been a moment earlier. From the looks of it, a wall had collapsed outward, onto the spot where he had been standing. The roof above the collapsed wall was sagging, and looked as though it was tempted to fall as well. A man stood by the smoking wreckage now, examining it. Henry could have sworn that the wall was completely on fire when he had been standing before it, but now it seemed to have burnt out.

She had saved him.

The man by the wreckage turned around and walked back towards them. "Everything alright over here?"

"Yes, sir, in top condition," the woman said.

All of a sudden, the man turned to Henry, frowning. "You could have been fatally injured if the Lieutenant and I hadn't caught sight of you then. Stay back with the evacuees now, please, or you'll just get in the way."

Henry stiffened, jaw clenching tightly. The phrase "_If I hadn't caught sight of you . . ._" was all too familiar, having been repeated to him all through his childhood by his father, usually preceded by a heavy cuff over the head or a daunting smirk. He looked at the man silently, and received an unsettling stare in return.

A tap on his elbow reminded him where he was. "Come on, let's go," the woman – a Lieutenant, the man had said – told him. With one last glance at the man, he allowed her to guide him towards the other people.

"Don't do that again, or you could get seriously hurt," she told him levelly as she and the man left him with the other soldiers.

The two officers walked back towards the burning building, and Henry pulled up his worse-for-wear camera, polishing the lens with his sleeve before capturing the image. When it was developed later, she was rubbing a hand through her hair, and he was readjusting the gloves he wore. They were silhouetted against the burning building they walked towards. The picture wasn't used for the story, because Forbes liked another one better, but Henry always preferred that one.

After he'd taken the photograph, Henry let the camera hang on its cord around his neck, one hand holding the weight gently. He turned to the soldier beside him. "Who is she?" he asked.

Looking a little confused, the man turned to him. "Who is who?"

Henry had to point her out to him before he replied "Oh, that's Lieutenant Hawkeye, and," the man added, a hint of pride entering into his voice, "that with her is Colonel Mustang, the Flame Alchemist."


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist or its characters. I do, however, own Henry Fitzwilliam, his family, and the Unnamed Psychologist.

**Notes:** Thought I'd mention that aside from the collapse of his mental faculties due to recent occurences, Henry's mainly in the asylum for his own protection. He's a potential target for attack and abuse, being accused of having killed one of the nation's war heroes, and he has also been displaying suicidal tendencies. Any crazy in him will have to be evaluated over the length of the story.

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**Chapter Three:**

The next time I went to visit him, Henry had calmed down. It had been a few days, and I supposed that he had had the time to think about what he had done. He was staring into nothingness when I arrived, and the morose expression on his face made me think that maybe this was the day he'd confess the truth of the situation.

"I wish she was here," Henry said in a whisper, before I'd even taken my seat. "I miss her so much."

Sitting down, I listened to him as he spoke. I didn't even need to guide him into a conversation – he just picked it right up, needing no more than a little prodding from me. Occasionally he'd ask me a question, pausing only long enough for a brief answer before continuing in a dazed state.

"I can see her smiling at me now. Like . . . Like . . ." His voice cracked, and he leant his forehead on one hand. When he looked up, his eyes finally met mine. "Did you know I was going to ask her to marry me?"

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. "No, I did not."

"It was going to be in two months' time," Henry said, eyes drifting away again. "That's when I'd have enough money. I don't- didn't want her to live in poverty, so I was saving up so that she wouldn't have to work. That way she'd be able to finally escape that jerk."

My chair squeaked a little as I jolted. The guttural growl that came out of Henry's mouth was eerily animalistic, and I decided that this 'jerk' might be a conversation point left for another time, when events weren't so potent. I knew I'd have to find out about him later, but right now my main thought was keeping Henry on the one track.

"You were going to ask her to marry you?" I queried, trying to lead him back.

The frown that had worked its way onto his face smoothed over, and after only a moment's pause, a dreamy smile replaced it. "Yeah. Then we'd move away to some town away from all of this fuss. She wouldn't have to worry about it all there."

I admit that curiosity struck me then. Well, perhaps not _struck, _exactly. It had been welling up for some time, as he alluded to problems that I hadn't heard of, and I stopped him before he went any further. "I don't think you've told me about the problems you're referring to now. How about we go from where we finished the other day, and you can let me know all about it."

Blinking, he looked up, almost as though just noticing I was there again. His eyes seemed a lot clearer than before. I was told later that he had had to be drugged a few hours before I arrived, and he was likely still under their affects during the interview. In hindsight, that did explain his less than lucid expression.

For a moment after I asked him to continue from where he left off, Henry looked concerned. "There won't be time for me to explain it all today," he intimated, watching me closely.

"Then just tell me what you can today, and we'll continue from there again next session," I told him calmly.

There was a pause, and Henry grunted, rubbing his face against his hand. "Well," he started, "I don't know about her, but the moment she saved me from that wall, I knew she was special. I mean, how often does a beautiful woman save your life? I had to find out who she was, so I asked a man, and he told me she was 'Lieutenant Hawkeye'. Later, another soldier told me her first name was Riza. Riza . . ."

There was a momentary pause in which Henry took a shuddering breath. His hands gripped at his hair. Soon, when he had regained control of his emotions, the hands dropped and he continued talking.

"It wasn't until the next day that I realised I hadn't even thanked her."


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist or its characters. I do, however, own Henry Fitzwilliam, his family, and the Unnamed Psychologist.

**Notes:** Here we go, a proper look at our military buds. Hurrah!

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**Chapter Four:**

The whole office looked exceptionally tired the next day. In fact, all of Headquarters did. The only people who had managed to get a relatively undisturbed night of sleep were the Fuhrer and a handful of his generals. It had been the duty of every commanding officer to make sure that his own people were safe, and so even officers with their own houses had been roused – that is why Mustang and Hawkeye had been dutifully present, beyond Mustang's fire-extinguisher duties of isolating flames from oxygen to starve them of their energy supply.

Heads bobbed slowly in time with the pace of the hand writing on or signing the forms beneath it. Every now and then a head would droop a little, but usually a loud voice or a kick from the next desk over would bring it back up, so that it could return to its bobbing.

The day was filled with boring monotony, until there was a knock on the door of the Mustang unit's office, and a delivery boy came in with a small bouquet of flowers.

"Uhh, is there a Miss Hawkeye here?" he asked, consulting his clipboard.

A few heads lifted up to look at the boy curiously.

"Chances are she's the only woman in the room, Junior," Breda advised sharply. He wasn't as tactful as usual when he'd been up half the night before.

"Oh, right." The boy's ears turned red. Everything about him from his nervous stance to the way he clutched at his clipboard as though it was a floatation device and he was in the middle of the sea during a storm just screamed that he'd been working at the florist's for a week at most. He took Breda's advice, however, and approached Hawkeye. With a slight stutter, he asked if she was Miss Hawkeye.

Still frowning in confusion, as she had been when he asked the room the first time, she said, "Yes."

With a sigh of relief, the delivery boy asked for her signature to say the delivery had been made, and handed over the flowers. He left as quickly as he could without running and closed the door behind him.

Hawkeye held the flowers at arms' length away from her face and stared at them, still frowning. When she looked up to ask if anyone knew where they came from, she found five faces watching her, equally bamboozled.

"Is . . . Is there a card?" Havoc asked, when he puzzled out that her expression meant she had no more idea than they did.

Twisting the bouquet around, Hawkeye caught a glimpse of a white card poking out from between some stems and plucked it out. "'Miss Hawkeye,'" she read. "'Our meeting last night was brief, but I forgot to thank you for saving my life. –Henry Fitzwilliam.'"

"The photographer," Mustang said with a tone of realisation. He had been watching just as interestedly as the others, if not more suspiciously. "He was probably too busy thinking about where he could get a good shot to think about anything else then. Nice of him to come around to our way of thinking."

"What happened?" Feury asked, eyes wide.

Mustang gave a short laugh and shook his head in disbelief as he recounted the event. "He was standing right next to this burning wall, too busy taking his photographs to realise the thing is coming down. Lieutenant Hawkeye spotted him while I was damping the flames down on the barracks' east side, and goes sprinting off to tackle him away just before the whole wall collapses on him. When I realised what was happening I wandered over to tell him he was an idiot for being that close to a burning building–"

"How charming. I wonder why he didn't send you flowers, too?" said Breda, with a smirk.

"–and then we escorted him to where the soldiers were waiting, and got back to our job," Mustang finished, with a roll of his eyes directed towards the pudgier of his Second Lieutenants.

"So he gives her flowers," Havoc said, redirecting everyone's attention back to the bouquet still held awkwardly in Hawkeye's hands. He grinned at the frown that had returned to Mustang's face. "I suppose that's nice of him."

Feury got out of his seat and wandered over to look at them. "What sort are they?"

Hawkeye had opened her mouth to say that she really didn't know, when Falman made use of his encyclopaedic knowledge and said, "Those two in the middle are irises – a symbol for friendship, faith, hope, wisdom and valour, meaning 'my compliments' – and those ones your hand is on are pink carnations – meaning 'you're unforgettable'."

The office became silent for a moment, and then Breda, Havoc and Mustang all let out chuckles and snorts of laughter at the same time. Falman was hiding a smile by pretending to scratch his nose, and Feury's eyebrows had shot up to the ceiling.

"Oh, shut up," Hawkeye said sourly, putting the flowers off to the side of her desk and giving them a wary look.

"Next thing you know, he'll be asking you out to dinner," Havoc joked, setting off another round of laughter.

Hawkeye scowled. "Get back to work."

By the end of the day, the office was back in the same weary state it had been in earlier. Only the occasional grin at the tidy little bouquet marked any difference in action.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist or its characters. I do, however, own Henry Fitzwilliam, his family, and the Unnamed Psychologist.

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**Chapter Five:**

"What happened after you sent her the flowers?" I asked.

Henry paused, a small smile making its home on his face. I had tried talking to him about several other things in meetings after the one in which he had told me about the flowers. We had spoken of his education, his childhood, and his family in such short, sharp conversation that I didn't know whether there was something more to be garnered from that alley of conversation, or whether it was preferable to move on. Most of all, we had spoken of what had happened to send him here. Henry still insisted that he hadn't killed her, with such a vehemence that I began to wonder if the military had caught the wrong person, in an attempt to have the death of one of their own taken care of quickly and efficiently. Taking all of the things we had spoken about into account, nothing made him smile, except for her.

That smile indicated his escape from the mental institution he had been placed in. An escape back into the past where, I had learned, she was still alive. It grew just a little bit wider before Henry said, "I didn't see her again for just less than a month, after that, but one day I saw her at the market and said hello. I . . . For a moment I thought she didn't remember me, but she did. She was very crisp and polite – and she liked the flowers I sent."

"It was a sweet gesture," I admitted. If I made myself easy to talk to, Henry would be more likely to trust me with deeper information. "Most women do like flowers."

Henry gave an appreciative nod. "I'm glad I sent them to her. We talked for a while, as she did some errands – buying groceries and the like – then she had to go home to feed her dog, so we parted ways."

The smile didn't disappear from his face, and I felt somewhat sceptical. I put my head to one side, questioningly. "Really? So quickly?"

"Yes. She has-d" – I pretended not to notice his slip-up, and he didn't acknowledge it with anything more than a miniscule wince – "this lovely little dog. Hayate, she called him. I met him a little while after that. I was helping cover a café opening, and she almost walked past with him. I was done, and so we had coffee – perfect place for it, right?" His chin began to tremble and he stopped talking for long enough to draw in a ragged breath. "She was so beautiful. But worried. Always worried and preoccupied."

I eyed Henry speculatively, then. With the problems he had been exhibiting so far, I had wondered just how perceptive a person he was. He could often guess what my facial expression meant (which was why I tried to make sure the correct emotional response of a confidante was in place – he'd clammed up more than once when I let a more thoughtful expression intrude), but other times he'd just seem confused by what I was trying to convey. True, that could have been because of the mix of my own thoughts effecting the mask I tried to hold up, but I had wondered nonetheless. That he was able to tell she was preoccupied and not just ignoring him ruled out a few of the question marks in my notes.

I crossed one leg over my knee. "Do you know what she was worried about?"

His eyes were downcast, stuck on the table in front of him. "I didn't at first."

I waited for him to continue.

"But then I realised she was thinking about _him_."


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist or its characters. I do, however, own Henry Fitzwilliam, his family, and the Unnamed Psychologist.

**Notes:** This one's a bit late, sorry - end of the week busyness overcame me. Here we get to start seeing a little more about Henry.

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Chapter Six:

New habits formed as each of the pair grew accustomed to the other, and to their occasional presence. They shared jokes and secrets, and every now and then meals – out more often than in. They were friends. More than friends, Henry's heart told him. It was the warm gleam in her eyes and the smile on her face. Then there were the odd little events. He'd walk her home sometimes, if he was in the area for work, and when he ran late once, he decided to go see if she had left already, but she was waiting there by the gates, talking with a friend who had kept her company. Sometimes he'd be wandering around the city, and when he began to take notice of where he was, he'd realise he was outside a coffee shop they frequented, or, once, even standing on her street. She'd leave a note for him somewhere, or he'd look up and see her standing there. It couldn't all just be friendly coincidence.

They walked home – or rather, he walked her home, as they certainly didn't live together – one abysmally grey-skied day, and she seemed lost in thought. Hayate was distracted and playful, but she paid him little notice. Henry had opened his mouth more than once to ask what she was thinking about, but couldn't gather the courage to say the words. She just looked so caught up in her own mind. Finally, he said something.

She looked up at him, almost startled – that's how absorbed she had been. She rarely looked startled. "I've just been busy lately, that's all. My boss–" Mouth twitching to one side in a wince, she cut off there. "Just busy."

The man had always made him feel wary, but he didn't like the vibe he was getting from her then. She seemed so sad, and lost, almost. But there was a brick wall standing between them, stopping anything from getting through. He nervously took her hand. "It's going to be alright."

Not one for public romantic gestures, she had squeezed his hand briefly and let go. He tried to distract her with talk of Hayate, but as he spoke, he couldn't help but wonder what had her so worried about her boss. He could have thought that she was . . . scared. Fear was not something that mixed well with Riza. It seemed like she could be brave through all circumstances – after all, she had tackled him out of the way of burning wreckage! What woman would do that, if she was afraid?

At his home that evening, Henry wandered around thoughtfully, pondering the man Riza worked for somewhat petulantly. He still remembered the sneer on the alchemist's face when he had told Henry he'd just get in the way if he didn't go and wait with the burning building's evacuees. In the way of what, Henry wondered suspiciously. That Mustang wasn't just trying to watch out for the people there, was he? For all Henry knew, Riza might have been attempting to escape the man when she saw Henry and decided to help him.

Henry stopped, blinking to clear his mind – that might just be taking things a bit too far. He tried to recall that night as clearly as he could to reassure himself, and, sure enough, didn't see any terrible signs of strife. There were one or two minor details that he couldn't reason out – a wary look when Mustang saw Henry and Riza together, the accusing glare he then turned on Henry, the way she stiffly called him "sir", even the hesitant proximity they walked off in. They did not add up well in Henry's mind, but they were such small clues. Could they really point to something, or was he looking too hard and too pointedly? It wasn't like abuse left great signs behind, but he wouldn't want to go about accusing a person of that lightly. He wouldn't want to ignore it, either. Just look at what that sort of behaviour had done to his family already.

Over thirty years of marriage had given Martha Fitzwilliam a robotic demeanour. That wasn't to say that she wasn't capable of emotion – she got angry easily enough, rebuking her children for stampeding down the halls, for breaking furniture, for provoking their father; she smiled from time to time, and even seemed to get legitimately upset when she found one day that all of her fish had died. It didn't mean, either, that she always had everything perfect – her laundry was spotless, and cooking never burnt, but there were days when her hair just wouldn't sit prettily, and it was impossible to have a clean house with so many boys to take care of. No, when Henry considered his mother robotic, it was in the way that she could so easily turn herself off or on when she needed to. She recognised the behaviours necessary, and seemed to switch her settings to the correct dial. It was a survival instinct, really. Such an ability helped her to behave normally in polite society, and pretend her home life was the same as any other woman's, and it also helped her put aside everything but the bare necessities at home: predicting her husband's reactions to different eventualities, and changing the situation to work out favourably, if possible.

Henry hadn't been able to sum up his father's personality with a succinct adjective – Gavin Fitzwilliam wasn't so easy to label. He wasn't particularly unpredictable, as proved by the odd success of Martha's fix-it strategies, and he wasn't terribly demanding or conniving. He didn't seek to make situations in which he could take a sadistic streak out on his children or wife. In fact, if things went "as they should", he wouldn't have to lay so much as a finger on his family for their behaviour. Henry had come to understand that his father had a particular view of how boys and girls should act, and any deviation from which he assumed was an affront on his parental skills, and corrected as sharply as he thought necessary. Henry had learnt when he was young not to mention his eldest brother Filip's difficulty in learning, and the surprising care Gavin had with him when explaining procedures or theories was nothing like the slaps and growls he gave Jack when he didn't catch onto something quickly. The stark difference reeked of guilt, and Henry didn't want to know why Filip was so slow sometimes.

So although he didn't think his Riza was being abused – she was a much stronger woman than his mother, in all aspects – he still didn't want to pass off the possibility as unfeasible. No-one deserved that sort of life.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist or its characters. I do, however, own Henry Fitzwilliam, his family, and the Unnamed Psychologist.

**Notes:** This chapter should give you a bit more background, and an idea of where Henry's leaps and bounds came from ;D

* * *

**Chapter Seven:**

Henry had had an unhappy childhood. I had garnered that much from our conversations already – he was picked on at home, and didn't have the physique or gumption his brothers had to be able to avoid teasing and bullying at school as well. We had touched on his abusive father once or twice, and I had seen how the recollection had brought about an entire change in his face, his body, and the way he spoke. Even the way he seemed to think. Everything became hesitant, but rushed, as though he was trying to make sure he had the right answer, and get it out of the way as soon as possible.

I had wanted for a while to be able to speak with him at greater length about his father, but found that his reaction was too volatile at times to be able to get anything much out of him, so I tried to approach from what I considered a safer route. One day I asked him about his mother.

Instead of the pensive, perhaps somewhat guarded reaction I expected, Henry clammed up. His jaw, which had evidently been sitting open, shut with a click, and the slight frown on his face disappeared. At first I assumed he was thinking about what to say, because he seemed to be waiting for something, but then a minute passed, and another, and yet another, and he still hadn't spoken. Besides a flickering of his eyes as his mind worked, he barely even moved.

When he did speak next, it was to say, "I bought opera tickets, once, for Riza and I, but we didn't get to go. Something came up and neither of us could make it. Work, you know?" The scowl on his lips told me he was way past my question. The way he had begun talking, in fact, sounded as though he had started halfway through a train of thought completely separate to the one my question should have provoked. "I wish I'd made more time for her, so we could just enjoy ourselves. What use is work when we have such short lives?"

I knew I wouldn't get anything about his mother from him then, and asked him another question to move on. I let him follow on with this train of thought and tried to understand just what path he had travelled to get there, hoping that something he said would link back to my question. My answer didn't come, and I didn't come back to the issue of his family until the next day.

This time I mentioned her a bit more tentatively, as I had now become interested in just why he would not speak about her earlier. He had spoken even less about her than he had about his father, whom he tried to steer clear of as anything more than a passing topic. His brothers were safe ground, I found quickly, and encouraged him to speak with me about them. Henry told me about the ways that Jack infuriated their father, with his fine fingers, and his predilection for playing with Rechel's dolls; Wade's perfection; Peter's curiosity with his mother's life when he was young had brought forth a number of altercations that led to the boy being totally averse to lifting a hand and helping in his own house.

"Of course she tried to stop Father from hurting us, but sometimes there was nothing she could do. Besides, that wasn't how he thought women were supposed to act, so when he realised she was doing it . . ."

I hesitated at this point, wondering whether to wait for him to go on naturally or to risk prompting him with a particular question on my mind and having him realise that he was straying into protected territory. I don't remember what the question was that seemed so important to me, because before I managed to make up my mind, Henry let out a sigh, and met my eyes, appearing more aware of my presence than he usually did in our sessions – even when he answered my questions, it could sometimes seem as though he were merely answering the promptings of his own mind. Now, he knew I was sitting there, and he knew that I would hear whatever it was that he had to say. I wasn't just a piece of the furniture anymore. That knowledge, conveyed through one straightforward stare made me feel uncomfortable.

Finally, "My mother, wasn't it? 'What part did your mother play in your life?'?"

It was the question I had asked the day before. I only nodded in response.

Henry's eyes never left my face as they roamed about for an answer. I felt him studying my nose, my cheekbones, my eyebrows, and even my eyes, without ever really looking past the physical into me, acknowledging that this shell had something inside it. When he had spoken, his eyes pierced into mine, but now they seemed to draw back until they focussed once again, and he looked back at me properly, steadily.

"She was all and none of my life," he said, thoughtfully. "At times she seemed to be everything our father was not – a protective force shielding us from his anger – but at others, it was as though she wasn't even there. She'd listen to him, and agree with him, and it was at those times that to me it seemed like she'd say anything to get people to believe she was whoever she wanted to be at the time. It was like she'd become someone else for him, but her real self would still shine through when we really needed her.

"I was surprised, sometimes, just how well she seemed to be able to pretend that nothing was happening. I remember her warning Jack for . . . something. Not playing with the right toys, probably. But he didn't listen, and when my father was trying to 'correct his behaviour', my mother was making sandwiches for our lunch in the next room, and didn't even seem to react to all of Jack's wailing. I had my ears covered, to try to block out the sound, but it was almost like she couldn't even hear it. She wouldn't admit that she heard it."

After rubbing at his eyes briefly, Henry continued. "But she did help. Because of her, we had forewarning, and time to fix up our behaviour before our father got home, if we weren't doing the sorts of things he thought right for us. She was always good about that. And sometimes, if he arrived sooner than expected, she'd find some way to stall him before he caught us. That's not to say we were always doing the wrong things, just that . . . when we were – if I tried to help my mother with her jobs, for example. When I was little, because she would never let me, I used to think that it was some special job only big people could do, and I always wanted to help. My father caught me trying to do it sometimes, and he'd get so angry. It wasn't until I was older that I realised it just didn't fit with how he thought boys were supposed to act, and that's why she didn't want me to help."

For a while he was silent. I was thinking about my next question to prod him into talking if he didn't start again for some time, but ultimately it was the silence that drew him back into conversation.

"Rechel, I think – my older sister – never seemed to get in trouble as much as the rest of us. She was the perfect little girl for our father, always his favourite, because she always acted how she was supposed to. But, when he wasn't around, she just seemed really strange. It was like she didn't know who to turn to; who to talk to, even. She'd get bossy with us younger kids, and used to try to convince Filip to do things for her. At least, until he pushed her, once. Don't get me wrong – Filip's not easy to anger or anything. But she was always getting at him, wanting him to take her to the shops, or buy her something, or constantly trying to hold his hand. When our father wasn't around, until Filip pushed her, it was almost even chances that you'd find her bugging him. She wasn't the same with me, or Peter or Jack – and with Wade she was different again, because he was so much younger than us."

Henry shifted uncomfortably in his seat, but didn't lose his momentum for more than a brief moment. "She pulled me aside, once, when we were playing outside. She dragged me down the side of the house, where there was only a small gap between the house and the fence, and started talking to me about my being a man now – I was maybe ten years old at the time. I had no idea what she was trying to tell me, but . . ." He grimaced, and took a breath. "Th-then our father came and found us, and that was the only time I remember seeing him angry at Rechel. He called her all sorts of names, and told her to go inside, then he whacked me once – hard, but _once_ – and called me a scoundrel, but that was it. I never really understood that one. There was usually a reason for everything, but I just didn't know what I got in trouble for there, or what _she_ got in trouble for."

That particular session was an interesting one. Looking back at it now, I believe that if I had understood Henry in a fuller way at that time, I would have realised just how instrumental a lot of what he had said in that session was to telling me about what were still, at that time, current events. My main thoughts then were that we had passed a great barrier of distrust and that now we'd be able to open up into more important things, but after the whole ordeal was over and I found myself looking over my notes once again, I couldn't help recalling just how broken Henry had seemed.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist or its characters. I do, however, own Henry Fitzwilliam, his family, and the Unnamed Psychologist.

**Notes: **Another one with our military. This should disabuse you of some not-entirely-true information you've been fed in previous chapters, while not entirely explaining it. Hurray! I feel like I did alright in trying to get normal flow of conversation in this one, too. I have too much of a tendency to get straight to the point sometimes, and I think I managed to slide around it for a while, more like regular conversation. Not as much as could be there, but I did the best I could.

* * *

**Chapter Eight:**

Riza Hawkeye was out of favour with her commanding officer - that was what lunchtime gossip said. It was mentioned in passing, with a mouthful of baked beans, somewhere between the carrots and the fruit, and contemplated just as thoroughly as Major Tadge's new hairstyle, or What That Feisty Sergeant Said This Morning. As a point of interest, it appeared to be successful with very few people, and most of those were ignorant or curious about all scandalous-sounding pieces of news.

Nevertheless, it was said, and not without reason – after all, what sort of Colonel would send his own aide away to work on a project that could as easily be handled from the office? The two had been customarily seen moving from one meeting to another, in close conversation before this incident that it all seemed so sudden. Well, perhaps not _close _conversation, but closer than most commanding officers would make with their subordinates. The project she had been sent on wasn't even all that challenging. The Second Lieutenant there could have overseen it with ample clearance – and if Mustang felt the man was truly incapable of doing it alone, he could have sent along his _other_ Second Lieutenant, rather than his First-Lieutenant-and-aide-in-one.

But despite all of this postulation and confusion, the fact remained that each day, instead of carrying out her work in the office with a loutish group of co-workers and a boss in need of baby-sitting, Riza Hawkeye spent almost seven or eight hours out on site. She then drove the rattling forty-five minutes back into the main area of Grand Central to have another one or two in the office, completing and delivering forms required for the day's work. Since she had not been in the office for more than an hour or two each day, Hawkeye wasn't aware of the spreading rumour. She contented herself instead with getting the job at hand completed to the best of her ability.

"Why is it," she found herself being asked one day after lunch on-site, "that we need these towers around Grand Central, anyway?"

The project she and Second Lieutenant Havoc found themselves on was in helping the military decide the best strategic locations for placing sniper towers around the city. It was harder work than it seemed, because they were both needed in the project until the very end, so that – as trained snipers – they were able to verify just how well the towers fulfilled their purposes. Just as a sniper was trained not to stand out, the towers were being built in such a way that they would blend in with their surroundings. Instead of a simple tower with no apparent purpose rising out from the houses, what was seen was a library, an apartment block, or a school house with an oddly tall turret.

The job that Hawkeye and Havoc shared was in pointing out the areas around Grand Central's perimeter most likely to be a weak point when facing invaders, and to supervise the construction of these towers, and inspect them upon completion. From what Hawkeye had observed and, in time, been told, the villagers didn't know what was really being built. Instead of becoming suspicious of the war toys – for they would have as little effect on a well equipped invading army – their hesitation at military presence this far out from the centre of the city wore off as they saw the services the buildings could provide their towns with. Hawkeye didn't have Colonel Mustang's sweetness of tongue, but she had an honesty about her that, in the meetings she'd sat in on with town leaders, had won their trust. In constructing those towers – hidden symbols of war – she felt almost that she was betraying their trust before she had even gained it.

The war their country seemed on the brink of, so soon after the various clashes between Amestris and her southern three neighbours, was the product of the previous military administration. Fuhrer Bradley, although skilled at pulling their country through a battle, and a pleasant man to work with, had not seemed to be interested in negotiating with potential threats. He held dissatisfied grumbles from Drachma, the great northern threat, at bay while cleaving a path through Aerugo, Creta and Ishbal. Xing was relatively safe over the desert of Xerxes, or through the long coastal path. Neither was quite as conducive to a head-to-head battle as a direct border. Bradley's regime was a conductor for the hatred of the surrounding countries, which turned their weapons on Amestris. That having been said, the rest of Fuhrer Bradley's tale is a story for another time.

The dregs of war and the potential for a new one starting up with the until now inactive Drachma had the new administration rushing to protect itself, and the sniper towers being built were one part of that defensive measure. So when Havoc drawled his question in the privacy of the car they were driving to the next tower site, Hawkeye told him as such.

"It's really a last line of defence," she pointed out. "If an invading Drachman army has come this far into Amestris, Briggs will have had to be destroyed, and all our northern towns. Taking Grand Central itself would be all the army would need to do to take most of our top Generals."

Havoc sighed, letting out a breath smelling of smoke. "And what use are two dozen sniper towers going to do to help out against a whole army?" His shoulders held a hint of resignation.

"They'll help more than you think, but less than you hope," Hawkeye added with a short laugh. She'd been in a sniper tower more than a handful of times, both in the Ishbal campaign, and in the past few years when a set of eyes in the sky would come in handy. Against a whole army, a sniper was a child throwing a stone against a wall and expecting it to fall over. When given particular targets, whether to protect or to kill, they were at their best. Working with firearms required a particular clarity of thought that Hawkeye found helped her focus well on small things; she could take out one particular Ishbalan priest from over a kilometre away without glancing those around him, or make sure no renegade got to the precious State Alchemists in her sights – at least so long as they didn't come en masse, but if they did surely the alchemist himself would notice and deal with them. She had proved her worth as a sniper, and knew the value of these towers, but she also knew just how long it took to evacuate a town, and that in the time it took for enough of the military force to gather to protect that perimeter, a well organised army could flood the town, and take over the very towers built to help protect it. Or rather, to protect the big-shots in Central Headquarters.

"Ah, no good," groaned Havoc. His hands slipped lazily from the top of the steering wheel to the bottom, and for a moment he kept the wheel steadied with one hand as he brought the other up to his mouth. Hawkeye observed the action quietly, and almost smiled at the flicker of a downturn on his lips when he remembered there wasn't a cigarette there. Patting lightly on each of his pockets once and twice revealed nothing, and the hand returned to the wheel. "You don't have-? No, you wouldn't."

Desperate times were falling on them again, it seemed, and habits that had cooled down picked up again. Not to say that Havoc had stopped smoking – Hawkeye didn't think he'd ever want to – rather that he'd slowed down a little. To save money, he'd said, when questioned at the office.

She looked out her window, watching the scenery as it passed by. "I never picked up the habit," she told him. It was odd, she knew – a sniper that didn't smoke. Most of them did, for something to pass the time with on those long shifts alone in those solitary towers. She pushed her mind away from the job at hand and – for once – towards Ishbal. "It was because of Hughes, actually."

"Hughes?"

"In the massacre . . . someone else, Forger, I think it was, told me to try one. He said it'd stop me _thinking_ while I was on duty. I'd be able to just get the job finished, no worries about it." The arch of Hawkeye's eyebrow, if Havoc had been so careless as to look away from the road long enough to observe it, showed her thoughts on that. "So he lit one up and passed it over to me, and when I tried it I couldn't stop coughing. Next thing I know it isn't in my hand anymore, and Hughes – whom, at that point I had met a total of two times – was handing it back to Forger and telling him not to teach me how to waste my money. Then he grabbed me by the arm and pulled me away, calling back that with all that coughing I'd probably end up just giving my position up to the Ishballans anyway."

Havoc laughed, and the tension seemed to ease out of his shoulders a little. His need for a cigarette, even if it had not subsided, had at least been distracted momentarily.

"I haven't tried one since."

"Not even on doctor's orders?"

"No doctor has ever prescribed them to me," she said, the tone in her voice the equivalent of a shrug.

"That's how I got onto them," Havoc said. "I had a broken leg – crate of grapes fell onto me at a terrible angle – and the doctor said smoking could take my mind off the pain. It fixed up fine enough that the military took me in, and I kept smoking. Just got used to it. My new girl's not so fond of it, though," he added wistfully.

A smile curled onto Hawkeye's face. "So you weren't slowing down for economical reasons?"

"I guess not," he admitted. "Well, not entirely, anyway. She didn't _tell_ me to stop, after all, just that she preferred it when I didn't, and I thought – what with the price of flowers these days – that I could kill two birds with one smoke. Um. Stone."

Eager to change the subject, now that he had thoroughly flustered himself and was too close to the matter at the core of his mind, he turned on Hawkeye. "What about you? Have you got anyone special these days?"

She blinked and stared at him, but he didn't seem to notice, as his grin widened and his eyes stayed on the road.

"You know those frats laws people mention are only guidelines, don't you? I'm sure you could convince someone quite easily that there's no favouritism at hand, if–"

"No," she said sharply. Havoc looked over and caught the displeased look in her eyes. "I'm not seeing anyone, so you can stop that nonsense."

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, which Havoc broke in as casual a voice as he could gather. "Well, no need to get your knickers in a knot. There's work to be done, and we're the ones to do it." And the car pulled into the little town it had been travelling towards, stopping by the conspicuous-looking soldiers milling around a half-built library.


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist or its characters. I do, however, own Henry Fitzwilliam, his family, and the Unnamed Psychologist.

**Notes:** From the less biased point of view we now explore the other side of the story, ooh~! There is an observation or two in here designed to start making links, but I'm not sure whether it's too blatant or too hidden. I'll just have to see.

* * *

**Chapter Nine:**

Although our first conversation about Henry's mother had turned onto different parts of his family in less than three minutes, having broached the topic seemed to have turned on a tap in Henry's mind that encouraged the words to gush out. The only topic he had been this enthusiastic about volunteering information on beforehand had been Riza Hawkeye, and although it was rather Freudian of me, I couldn't help but draw the comparison between the two women.

I had wondered from time to time just how accurate Henry's descriptions of the woman whose murder he was charged with could be. In what would be considered my spare time, I had taken the opportunity of scheduling appointments to speak with several people who had known her in life, whether in person or just by reputation. Very few of the people who worked with her for a long period of time were available to talk with me, or were willing to do so, and I could find only one family member, a grandfather, who knew very little about her.

The opinions of Riza Hawkeye's character that I found varied from person to person, but were also repeated enough that I feel I found a solid idea of her personality both with those she knew and those she didn't. Most people act differently with strangers than they do with those they're more familiar with, and although it took a little bit of pointed questioning, I spent some time understanding just how differently Riza Hawkeye acted.

It wasn't as great a difference as with most people, which I had expected a little, since Henry had seemed to become enthralled with her in such a short amount of time, but there were still some main points that separated the two behaviours. The way she interacted with, say, her own office mates was very different to how she would treat a troop of soldiers under her command. That's when the military-woman in her came out; she was firm and in-control. Those working under her command, on the project she was supervising, or who had worked under her command before, told me that she seemed cold. Business-like. I asked, to verify, if that was not the case with all military leaders when responsible for a group, and was told in reply by a major that even when they were on break, and everyone else seemed to be chatting amicably, she was always alert, even as she ate and drank. He seemed to think that she never let her guard down, and both admired and pitied her for it.

There were days in which the military was feeling less charitable towards me, and I was told to come back another day, instead of questioning their people and disturbing their work. In those days I looked for people outside the military that Riza Hawkeye would have known. I spoke to her local butcher, who had read about her unfortunate death in the newspapers, and said he had been shocked when he recognised the face in the picture. By his account, she was a friendly and charming woman, always willing to listen to him rambling on for a while, before she made her excuses and left. The other produce sellers said much the same thing, that she was polite and pleasant, and that they missed her patronage. Acting like a soldier? No, never! Well, perhaps they could see it in some mannerisms – she always seemed to hold her head a little higher than everyone else, as though she was the only person who wasn't slouching or stooping; and although she didn't seem particularly graceful, the fruiter couldn't imagine her ever tripping, she was just too sure-footed.

Eventually the military would allow me to disrupt its workday again, and I would find myself talking with every manner of soldier. I put off speaking with her direct colleagues for some time, knowing that I'd have to handle those interviews with some tact. In the meantime General Grumman provided an interesting interview for me. After some consideration, he managed to say that what he had seen of his granddaughter was a great loyalty, and strength of character. She was very skilled at playing a supporting role, and he never found any negative reports about her. Other than the idea some had that she was cold and distant, she was well liked and did her job superbly. I left that interview understanding Henry a little more.

When I finally got around to speaking with the men she had worked alongside for the past decade, I was cautioned to think thoroughly before I spoke. This advice was put to the test many a time, as I reworded questions several times before I opened my mouth.

Only two of her co-workers consented to speak with me: Second Lieutenant Jean Havoc, and Warrant Officer Vato Falman. Both of them provided very different, but coinciding information. The Warrant Officer gave me detailed information about her work habits – without speaking about the work involved, in keeping with military policy – and of the sorts of things usually betrayed by her expressions when she was caught unawares. He managed to give me quite a detailed picture of what she must have looked like to a close acquaintance. The Second Lieutenant's description of her was much more personal. He spoke without the precise nature the Warrant Officer had, instead giving me an idea of the overall feel of things. He seemed to dodge one or two topics, and I respectfully pulled back my questions into those areas to honour the woman behind them. His stories about Riza Hawkeye came as from someone who understood her.

Whereas those who didn't know her painted her as cold, these two men showed instead that she was rather private. The soldiers saw her as a dog of the state, but her co-workers maintained she was, rather, a woman with a mission. She was authoritative but submissive, gentle but strong, loyal, and quiet, and protective, and caring – she was everything she needed to be, when she needed to be.

"Henry Fitzwilliam?" Warrant Officer Falman asked me. "Yes, I recall hearing his name before his arrest. He sent her flowers for saving his life. But . . . why would he shoot her?"

I pressed him briefly. "Are you sure? There was no mention of him in the months after that? No contact made, no conversations held?"

He shook his head. "As far as I know, Lieutenant Hawkeye didn't hear from him again. She wasn't one to talk about her private life often, and I wouldn't have recognised him if I saw him. I'd suggest asking Brigadier-General Mustang, but he's not in the best of conditions now."

Brigadier-General Mustang didn't respond to my request for an interview with him.


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist or its characters. I do, however, own Henry Fitzwilliam, his family, and the Unnamed Psychologist.

**Notes:** Ay, everyone remember this is _Henry_'s point of view, so you get his interpretation of facts. Perhaps not everything he's thinking spelled out, but a fair deal of it. The most important thing to think about, I believe, is _how_ he views Riza, and what that could mean to him, and why it would seem significant.

* * *

**Chapter Ten:**

Henry was at work when he found out.

Everyone was cheering over the new regime – some Grumman fellow had been installed as the new Fuhrer, and called off a whole lot of the war-time preparations. A country that had been able to feel itself sinking further and further into fear and pain had been able to breathe a sigh of relief, and it finally looked like someone who knew what they were doing was in charge.

Two months of this new leadership passed, and changes were being made. Some quite slowly, but they were happening, nonetheless. Henry found himself proud of his country for the first time since he found out just how many young Amestrians became soldiers, and how few of them returned from the unnecessary battlefields. Work that had dulled over time became once again more than just a way to provide an income – Henry was proud of what he did, and he did it well.

As the country prospered, the military was of less and less use. There were no battles to be fought anymore, and so they waited, restlessly. Any hints of military misbehaviour were treated twice as heavily as civilian misbehaviour, and so the population was largely at peace with the idling soldiers. Many soldiers retired in this time, or took up jobs in other areas. Others were assigned new duties in government jobs, wherever their skills lay. Alchemists, especially, were appreciated as builders of new constructs, because the structures they built were stronger than anything that could be nailed or cemented together. There were some alchemists, however, whose skills didn't lie in the area of construction; whose alchemy was better aligned for taking things down, or for destruction. Henry had hoped that these alchemists would each have their license removed and be told to find work elsewhere, but it seemed that they could be found jobs just as any normal soldier could.

In an attempt to curtail corruption, inspections of large businesses became more frequent, and – officially, for it really depended on what each officer chose behind the scenes – bribes came under a new no-tolerance policy. Each business in Central was open to inspection at any time, no more than once a month, no less than twice a year. Henry was certain that there were a few officers that spoiled the incorruptible façade, but, for the most part, they seemed to have his boss looking nervous and as important as he could. He took that to mean that the man didn't believe they'd accept any payment for a better score, but he also felt no need to abase himself before them.

They'd seen all sorts of inspectors, but it wasn't until their third inspection that Colonel Mustang appeared, and at his side, Riza. Henry was transfixed. He felt as though Mustang would look over and see him at any moment, and tell him he was doing an awful job of . . . whatever he was doing. What was Henry doing? He tore his gaze away, and told himself to remember the task at hand, but couldn't help a glance over at Riza. She seemed quiet; subdued. As Henry's boss led the way to some machine or another, yammering on, Mustang placed a hand at the small over her back and tilted his head towards her, saying something quietly. Henry stopped making any pretence at still working. Her eyes, as she looked at Mustang, seemed guarded.

They disappeared after his boss, moving onwards in the inspection, and left Henry there in a room of his co-workers, his mind abuzz with what he'd seen. To what extent had Mustang taken this action? What was he doing that had Riza so hesitant? His thoughts bubbled and boiled, and stopped all of a sudden when, quite some time later (although he didn't realise it, for he had spent the entire interim in impassioned thought), the trio returned back into the main workroom. He watched, like a guard-dog, for anything out of order, and his vigilance paid off. There, as she raised her hand to brush a hair away from her face, he spotted a heart-wrenching gleam upon one finger.

It was then that everything clicked into place, in Henry's mind. Her subdued countenance and Mustang's possessive gestures were all just hints at what lay beneath the surface.


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist or its characters. I do, however, own Henry Fitzwilliam, his family, and the Unnamed Psychologist.

**Notes:** We're coming up to the end, now. In following with the pattern, the next chapter is from the military point of view, and it is the event itself. The chapter after that (thirteen) is the very last, and wraps things up with a bit of explanation. This one, however, is really just the introduction to the tale being told in the next chapter.

* * *

**Chapter Eleven:**

After all of my research I came back to Henry, hoping to understand a little more now that I knew the subject on a wider basis than only by his recollections. It would give me a better insight into his actions, and into what may have really happened behind the events he was telling me about. After conversations with enough of Riza Hawkeye's acquaintances – none of whom had seen Henry or heard of him since the fire incident and the bouquet – I had come to the conclusion that thoughts I had entertained early on about the rationality of Henry's mind were more significant than I had considered. He was not rational, that was certain, but at what level of irrationality was he functioning? I wondered about the conversations he told me he'd had with her, and whether they were imagined and some break in his memory had led him to forget what was imagined and what real, or whether they were actual hallucinations. Whatever the case, he was delusional, and his delusions had brought him this far. Was it a delusion that prompted him to kill her, too, or was his continuing plea of innocence truth? Now that I knew the rest of what he said for lies I wasn't sure whether to hold to his claim here or assume it was the same as everything else he'd said. I did believe he was fascinated by her, and if she was held in such high regard what could have happened that he would feel the need to kill her? But then, if Henry didn't do it that meant her real killer was still unapprehended, and somehow Henry was still made to look very guilty.

When I arrived, he was already waiting in the room where we usually conversed. This was normal, because I arrived at pre-scheduled hours, and there was enough time between when I arrived at the facility and when I found my way to this room for Henry to be shifted even if they weren't expecting me. But the guard at the door, a man to whose face I had become accustomed over the weeks, stopped me briefly before I entered, his hand squeezing at my forearm to get my attention.

"He's been in there for an hour already," the man said, looking me earnestly in the eyes. "Pacing and howling, and talking to himself. No; not talking to himself, exactly. Rehearsing what he's going to say, more like."

I looked through the window in the door, watching as Henry's lips ran through some sort of dialogue. "He asked to be brought early, himself?" I asked.

"Yeah, wanted to be ready for when you arrived. I think he's up to talking about it, now."

Henry had spoken briefly about what had happened on the day of Riza Hawkeye's murder, but never at length. More than one he'd broken off, unable to speak further. After he'd proved less volatile than expected, security had been lightened, and the guard no longer waited in the room as Henry and I spoke. The only way the man could know that Henry still hadn't spoken about that day was if Henry told him outside of our sessions. Henry hadn't shown signs of recent maltreatment, so after eyeballing the guard, I decided that maybe he had actually been growing friendly with my patient. It was good to know someone was speaking with him.

My eyes had returned to the window in the door, and after watching for a moment longer, having been gripped by the idea that I might finally know the answer to the puzzle set before me, I put my hand on the doorknob. "Well, there's only one way to find out," I said, and twisted it open.

Henry looked up when I opened the door, and stopped his muttering and pacing. "Good afternoon, Doctor," he said to me. It was the first normal greeting I had received. Usually the first time Henry spoke in a session was in response to one of my questions, or to my prodding him.

"Good afternoon, Henry," I said. I gestured for him to take a seat, and I took the one opposite, resting my arms on the table between us.

He took the seat I offered almost as though it was something he had forgotten when he was practicing his conversation. "I was just thinking," he said, and paused a moment, blinking and chewing at his lip. A tremor ran through his jaw "-Thinking of the day Riza died. It seems so surreal, now. I-is she dead?"

I looked at him levelly. "Do you think you'd be here if she were alive?"

His shoulders slumped, and his head dropped into his hands. "No, you're right. I-" he swallowed. "I know she's gone. I just wish it didn't have to happen."

The behaviour Henry was exhibiting today was so similar, I noted, to the first time I met him. Not the same – he still had some perspective, and other than that weak ray of hope, he seemed resigned – but the wounds had opened up recently, most likely from thinking about the event too often. I found the same thing happened to me, sometimes, when I thought about wounding things from my childhood. What had happened twenty years ago could feel as though it happened just one week past, if I focussed and fretted hard enough. Riza Hawkeye had only been dead a few weeks – it couldn't have felt like more than a day to Henry.

Still, I couldn't help but notice Henry's wording. "Did it have to happen, Henry?" I asked. "Couldn't there have been some other way?"

He looked up at me, a frown crossing his face. "No, it didn't have to happen. She could still be alive right now, if it wasn't for that bastard." The sound of muted rage had built up in his voice as he spoke, but now he closed his eyes and breathed heavily, as though trying to calm himself down.

"If you'd like to tell me," I ventured after four or five breaths, "what happened that day?"

Eyes opening, Henry said nothing. When he finally spoke, I listened more carefully than I ever had before.


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist or its characters. I do, however, own Henry Fitzwilliam, his family, and the Unnamed Psychologist.

**Notes:** The Event

* * *

**Chapter Twelve:**

It was ten minutes to seven o'clock, and the office day was wrapping up to an end. Dutiful as she was, Hawkeye had her forms filled out and signed, and filed or sent to the appropriate offices. She'd spent the past half hour convincing Brigadier General Mustang to do the same, and – for once – was rewarded with the sight of a completed paperwork sitting on one side of his desk before the occupants of the office were due to leave.

The pen Mustang was holding dropped to the desk with a clatter, and he alternately stretched and curled the fingers on his hand. "Feury," was the word to break through the chatter on the other side of the room. "Rush these over to the assignments desk, and see that they take care of them."

A crestfallen expression appeared on the young officer's face, but it was pushed aside quickly. "Yes, sir." The task was likely to take him another fifteen minutes, at least, and even if it was only five or ten minutes overtime, Feury was still young enough to feel it mattered. He'd been working with Mustang for long enough that he should have been weaned of those habits by now, but he just hadn't learnt his lesson. He shuffled over to Mustang's paperwork, gathered it in his arms, and shuffled out of the office.

A sigh from Hawkeye's desk made Mustang look over, just in time to see her rolling her eyes. "Sir," she said. "You really need to stop abusing that young man's eagerness."

"Eh, it's his own problem," Mustang replied with a grin. His eyes flickered over to where Havoc, Breda and Falman were likewise finishing up or wasting time until they could clock off. "Not like he had anything else to do."

She raised her eyebrows. "You should know how to do your own work by now, sir."

"I _do_."

"Then next time you try to foist it off onto Feury, I'll just have to reprimand you in front of him, so he realises he is actually being wronged and not just being made to do extra duties or some such nonsense."

"Aww, Riza-" He cut off. "Sorry, slip of the tongue." It had been a mutual agreement that at work formality – or as much of it as had been there before – would still be the modus operandi between them. They both understood the importance of it in the way it'd cause people to view them, the respect they'd be given, and in reminding people that even when married, there would be no playing favourites. Everything at work would be professional.

After a pointed glare, Hawkeye checked the clock on the wall. Six minutes to go. She found her place in the book on her desk, and resumed reading for just a little longer.

Soon enough the work day was over, and Hawkeye could be found downstairs, exiting the great building. Coat hanging over one arm – the evening was not cool enough yet to warrant wearing it – she farewelled Scieszka, the scatterbrained librarian, as she walked past. Hawkeye's office was, surprisingly, one of the more diligent ones. It was half an hour after most other soldiers had left that they'd agreed was their time to head home, and as such they also managed to miss a lot of the busyness of a common leaving time. By the time they went home, the corridors had lost their crowd-like appearance – although, Hawkeye reasoned, they certainly weren't the last to leave, as witnessed by Scieszka's business-like stride in the direction of the Investigations office.

The other members of Brigadier General Mustang's office had become engaged in a conversation of ideal drinking establishments just before it was officially time to clock off, and Hawkeye had left them there discussing the matter. They would all come down when they were ready, and she had left her dog, Hayate, at home that day and needed to get back to him to give him a walk before dinnertime. She was setting off in the direction of her home when she heard a voice calling her.

"Riza!"

As she saw the man approaching her from the other side of the road she was struck with an odd sense of familiarity and confusion. She recognised the face – she had seen it somewhere – but could not recall where she knew it from. The fact that he had called her by her first name made her wonder if it was someone she had known as a child, but she could not imagine what he would have looked like at a younger age. His clothes didn't seem to distinguish him any further – a black overcoat, somewhat scuffed boots, and, if not in top condition, at least a neat suit. When he joined her on the pavement outside of Headquarters, his eyes latched onto hers pleadingly, and Hawkeye found herself digging for his name once again.

His hand clutched at the buttons of his coat tightly, anxiously. "Is- Is this what you really want?" he asked, stepping a little too close for Hawkeye's comfort.

She leant back a little to find her own personal boundary. "Excuse me?" Although somewhat experienced with friends who brought up a topic, and later alluded to it cryptically, she didn't know where to begin with this man. She didn't recall any history of topics to look amongst. A niggling voice in the back of her head was telling her that perhaps she didn't know him at all.

"This Mustang," he said after a pause. His eyes flickered down to her hand, which was wrapped around the strap of her bag on her shoulder. It seemed as though he was both giving much and very little thought to his words. Or rather, he was giving a lot of thought to the words themselves, and not as much as should have been done to the meanings behind them. "Is he- is this what you want for-"

Hawkeye felt at the engagement ring she wore, certain now that that was what he was talking about, but just as puzzled as she had been before.

"Hawkeye?"

That, behind her, was Roy's voice. Mustang's. The knowledge that she had someone there to back her up if anything were to go wrong was comforting, but she simultaneously found herself annoyed by that thought. She was a military woman; she could take care of her own problems without men stepping in.

"Is it?" the man was pressing. For a moment irritation flashed onto his face, and it seemed as though she recognised him again, but the expression passed and so did the recollection, as a wave of desperation seemed to appear.

"I'm sorry," she told him, trying to close the conversation, and turned away to walk back to Brigadier General Mustang. Even if she could take care of herself, she wouldn't be so stupid as to ignore the safety of company, especially with such a strange man around. She was even more relieved to see Breda by Mustang's side, as though they had been speaking together before seeing her, and the others were a little way further back

From behind her, she heard the unknown man go on in pained tones. "It's okay. It's safer this way. It's alright."

The only warning she really had was the momentary widening of Roy's eyes. He didn't even have the time to call out or to raise his hand before the sound of the gunshot exploded through the quiet evening. Riza was blown over by the impact, collapsing on the ground with a force that would have jarred her head terribly if the pain in her chest wasn't so dominant. It was a matter of seconds in which the agonising pain of her heart came to a halt, and everything faded to black.

It was not so for Roy Mustang. Everything did not change to black. A strangled yell burst from his throat, and he leapt forwards, fully feeling the jarring effect on his knees that Riza had not, when he crashed down to the pavement by her side, but unable to spare a moment's thought for it. His hands gingerly wrapped around her body, trembling at the dampness of her uniform, and when he rolled her over, one hand gently cradling her head so as not to twist her neck, he found himself retching at the blood that had spewed out of a terribly messy exit wound. There was no hope that she was still alive, but he couldn't help but check.

The howl that seemed to escape Mustang was echoed in Henry as the redheaded soldier twisted his arms behind his back, having removed the pistol from Henry's possession. He had almost managed it, almost shot himself too, but the redhead had been faster than Henry had expected, moving at the same time as Mustang, but instead of towards Riza, to Henry, who had still been clutching his weapon.

Even as the man holding him called for help, tears fell down over two pairs of cheeks, and Henry found himself totally trapped by the people he had never really trusted. And yet she was dead, and gone, but he was still there, now even more alone than he had ever felt before.


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist or its characters. I do, however, own Henry Fitzwilliam, his family, and the Unnamed Psychologist.

**Notes: **And this is the very last chapter, with the basic explanation of Why he did it. I can understand his reasoning, because I wrote him and I know what's going on behind it all, but if I haven't explained properly, let me know, because there is no more afterwards. If you liked it, and if you're a strange person like me maybe you should go back and re-read, and now you know what happened and why Henry did it, see if you can pick up the hints :P Otherwise, thank you very much for reading.

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen:**

There was a silence before I dared to speak. Henry's lip was trembling, and it looked as though he were about to burst into tears, but at that moment all I felt was revulsion. This man had just admitted outright to having killed the woman he idolised, and he had the audacity to be regretful? No – not even regretful, he just mourned her, as though he had any right to it after stealing her from her own friends and soon-to-be-family. It wasn't my job to judge him, and I reminded myself of as much over and again as a way of removing the prejudice from my mind. What he did was appalling, but I couldn't just leave it at that. I couldn't just find out what had happened. I had to know why.

"H-Henry," I said – and yes, I admit that I did stammer. I was quite unsettled at the time. "You do realise that you have just admitted to me that you killed Riza Hawkeye." I swallowed, trying to ease the dryness of my throat.

"I-I-I did;" – for he stuttered, too – "I killed her. With my own gun."

"But Henry, do you remember when I asked you if you murdered her?" He began shaking his head in such a way that denied the murder itself, not the recollection. "No, no, I know – that was a poor choice of words, but it is what I said. You told me that you couldn't do that sort of thing to her."

"That's right – I couldn't just _murder_ her." He was becoming unsettled in his seat now, and his agitation was making me feel nervous, myself.

"If you didn't murder her, then why did you kill her-? What purpose-? Why did you do it?"

The sorrow in his eyes seemed to still his fidgeting, and although he could by no means be considered calm, he was composed enough to seek my own eyes out, as though giving me no chance of escaping his meaning. He had never spelt it out so clearly for me before, even if he did not realise for himself, either at that time or at any later point, looking back at his words.

"She was going to marry him," he said. "She had no other choice. He would have followed us if we'd run – he was even right there when I spoke with her, watching over her shoulder as though in nothing she did could she ever escape him. If he'd been close enough to hear what we'd been saying, and found his way out of the public eye, do you think he would have let her go without reminding her who was _in charge_? Do you think he would have ever let her forget that she considered another man? That's naivety on your part – you don't know how people like him think or act."

"Do you really believe that a man of the sort of character you have in mind could have become such an icon to the people?" I asked, trying to separate Henry's _idea_ of Mustang from the man himself. "Even to fool just a few, he'd have to be a wonderful actor."

"Yes, an actor!" Henry cried, as though that had been precisely what he meant to convey this whole time. "A terrific actor – so good that even the people he worked with didn't realise the lengths he went to, to make sure his family was run the way it should be! Do you know how he treated us? A-And even still, no-one outside of our family knows exactly why Rechel killed herself, or why Peter can't maintain one sweetheart for more than however long it takes for his behaviour to make the woman loathe herself. Mother was always there, always being punished for our behaviour, or for her own little slip ups. He'd never let her forget it. He'd never let any little thing pass him by. Do you know how much she suffered? I'm older now – I'm not just a little child, but even now she was still just going to marry him, and put up with that for the rest of her life."

"Henry. _Henry._" It took almost four minutes, as he began to wail, reliving her death, for me to calm Henry enough to listen to me and to be able to answer. There wasn't much point in trying to separate his idea of the people who had played such great parts in his life, both past and present. What was done was done, and I could see no outcome other than a guilty verdict on the charts for Henry. But still, if I couldn't separate those people in his mind, I still had to know. "How could something like killing a person help?"

He looked up from where he had collapsed over the table between us, wiping tears away hurriedly. "We were going to be together. If I hadn't been stopped, I would be dead too, now. I would be there with her, in whatever afterlife there would be – or, even if there is no afterlife (how am I to know such things?) we wouldn't have to feel the pain any more. I didn't murder her. I didn't- I couldn't just do that out of such a cold-heartedness; I _love_ her. I didn't murder her. I set her free."

I knew Henry Fitzwilliam intimately for a very short amount of time, having spent several days each week visiting with him, and hearing about his life, about the things that went on in his mind, and about his love affair with a woman who barely seemed to know he was there. My findings led me to pronounce him mentally unstable, delusional, and a danger to himself more than to anyone else at this particular time. He was still tried and found guilty of the murder of First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye. I didn't manage to visit him in jail. The sentence itself, I believe, upset him so much that at the first chance he found, he killed himself. The only visitors he had were a Jake and Matty Fitzwilliam, neither of whom I was able to find when I later investigated.

I'm still not sure what to think of Henry. I grew attached to him in part, I believe, as one grows close to another person when they spend a lot of time in frequent contact, but remembering our talks reminds me time and again of just how perverted a human's behaviours can become, when all they know is pain and suffering. I have my own family now, and I find myself, when disciplining my son, remembering the feral, instinctual expressions on Henry's face as he spoke of his father's actions. I think because of the shock such a experience has given me, I may not discipline my son thoroughly enough – he has enough cheek for three boys – but even as I tell my son off for what he has done wrong, I remember to show him that no matter what, as his father, I will care for him and help him to know what is good instead of just letting him know what is bad.

Henry may be dead, but I could never forget him. He has become too much of a reminder and a conscience for me, even more so than he was in life.


End file.
